A Little Matter of Temptation
by Bella Mortis
Summary: SLASH. AC Sometimes an angel has to do what an angel has to do, but they must beware that they bite off only what they can chew. Er.
1. A Little Matter of Temptation

A Little Matter of Temptation

Obligatory disclaimer and warnings: The angel and the demon mentioned aren't mine-they belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Oh, the things I made allusions to aren't mine, either. Also, this story is SLASH. Don't like, don't read. Simple, right? 

It was a lazy summer's evening about a year after the near-Apocalypse. It must also be mentioned that it was a well-earned lazy summer's evening for a certain demon and a certain angel who'd spent the entirety of what was supposed to be a lazy summer's day doing their respective jobs according to their unofficial Arrangement. Of course, due to the overall laziness of everything in general, both had called a halt only about an hour after tea-time, and headed to the Ritz for a light meal and a few drinks. The 'few drinks' were not stopped at the restaurant, and were indeed carried over to Anthony J. Crowley's posh London flat. 

Aziraphale took another sip straight from the half-empty wine bottle, and sank even further into the comfortable white leather sofa. He wasn't sure exactly how much he'd had to drink so far, but knew that somewhere between the first shot at the Ritz and whichever wine bottle this one was that he'd finally achieved the time-honoured ranking of four sheets to the wind.[1] That's why he was slightly confused at the clacking sound that suddenly came out of nowhere with the obvious intention to annoy him. 

Working to focus, he turned his eyes to Crowley, who was slouching on the opposite end of the sofa. Or at least he had been slouching the last time Aziraphale saw him. Now Crowley was sitting hunched over a slim, stylish laptop that he rarely - if ever - used, and that had a thin stream of smoke coming from its back. He was also typing furiously. Well, as furious as a demon could type anyway.[2] A slight gleam was in what Aziraphale could see of his yellow, slit pupil eyes, and, even drunk, the angel had a feeling that that particular gleam meant that the demon was working on the sort of job that Aziraphale would usually be required to thwart. 

"Say, what 'sat you working on?" Aziraphale slurred.

Crowley started slightly, and Aziraphale thought it was a guilty sort of start. Of course, it could've just been the sudden break in the comfortable silence, but Aziraphale had already made up his mind on the subject. "'S nothing, really," Crowley said, just a bit muzzily. He looked over at the slouching angel for a moment, his eyes hidden fully behind his dark shades and his expression as innocent as it could get. Which wasn't, really. "Just some recording and filling. Er, filing. Recording and filing." Then he turned back to the screen, hunching even further over the machine. 

"Now why don't I believe you?" It was a guilty sort of hunch. Aziraphale debated the wisdom of sobering up, but he wanted to be sure that such an action was required. He'd spent all afternoon and a good deal of the evening working to achieve his current pleasantly buzzing, bone-melted state. Besides, Crowley was still three or more sheets to the wind himself, and dealing with someone that far along when you weren't wasn't exactly enjoyable. Sighing, he worked hard to push himself into sitting position, and scooted unsteadily across the couch. When he was right next to the demon, what he saw on the screen caused a hint of unconscious sobering.

"A ha! I knew you were lying," Aziraphale said, waving a hand wobbly in the direction of the screen. He glared at Crowley. "You were trying to pull some sort of job while I wasn't looking."

"What'd you expect?" Crowley grinned an evil grin made a little less evil by his inebriated state, and rose to a more comfortable position now that the hunching wasn't really needed. Not that it had been very helpful in the first place. "I just didn't think you needed to bother with this one, angel." He shrugged nonchalantly. His fingers still skittered across the keyboard. "You still owe me for that bit I did in Libson - no, Lispon-" the demon thought for a second. "Lisbon? Anyway, you still owe me for what I did last month. Nuns and their blessed charities." He shuddered. 

Leaning towards the screen, Aziraphale noticed that Crowley was messing around with some sort of large network, probably one of large importance to a large company somewhere. "No, I don't. I didn't interfere with that shin-dig a week ago, and look where that boy ended up, the poor darling. That more than makes up for Lipsin - wherever you were." Aziraphale sat back up and slouched against the back of the couch, his eyes still on the screen. "As a matter of fact, it's more likely that you owe me, instead."

Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, a slightly indignant expression on his face. "What about my treating you to the Ritz earlier this evening? And I'm almost sure you drank a good third of my '72 Merlot. I like my '72 Merlot," he muttered, pouting slightly.

"Pish! It was your turn to foot the bill. As for the wine, you helped. And by helped, I really mean helped. As in _helped._" 

"Well, a demon should be able to drink his own wine,"Crowley replied simply, turning his attention back to the laptop. 

"Hmm, true, true." Not sure of what else he could say in the face of such logic, Aziraphale just kept quiet as he watched Crowley work. Well, until he noticed he'd dragged the half-bottle of wine over with him. Then he just kept quiet and worked on drinking himself back up from his lesser three sheets status. Meanwhile, he mentally went through what the angels' handbook had to say about this sort of situation. Unfortunately, it wasn't much, mostly stuff about "it is not considered wise to consort with the minions of the Adversary" and such, and, quite frankly, it was too late for that bit of advice. 

It was at around three-and-a-half sheets that Aziraphale remembered the oft-forgotten - and much omitted - bit about "sometimes an enemy's way is the only way"[3] and he began studying Crowley, wondering what the demon would do in Aziraphale's position. This was quite difficult, of course, considering he had a slightly off rendition of _Bohemian Rhapsody _going through his mind, along with a random running monologue condemning Crowley's taste in music in a voice that sounded suspiciously like William Shatner's, but he concentrated, he really did. That's how he knew it would most likely be morally corrupt and rife with sin. Well, once Crowley got past the usual bargaining stage of the Arrangement, of course. 

It was just past the border of three-point-nine-nine-eight sheets that Aziraphale came up with the perfect plan, but it took until a full four-point-one sheets and the end of the bottle for him to actually get up the courage to go through with it. He knew it would be alright, since it was, after all, a simple way to stop one's progress in nearly anything if done right. For a demon, that is. It was bunches more difficult and posed certain risks for an angel, such as falling, if carried too far. Well, if carried outside the human form, to be exact. His alcohol fuzzed brain only skimmed over this, as it was working to beat down the background noise. 

"So, what're you doing, anyway?" Aziraphale asked. Meanwhile he spread his slouch out further, so far in fact that his leg brushed Crowley's and a hand landed seemingly carelessly on the demon's thigh. 

Crowley jumped slightly at the sudden contact, and the clacking of keys that had filled the air until then fell silent for a moment, then hesitantly started back up. "Um, nothing too big. Just fiddling with these large-" he glanced at Aziraphale, "somewhat large networks."

"Which ones?" Aziraphale asked, his tone mildly curious, as he leaned over a bit to look at the screen. The action caused his hand to slide further inward and up.

"Just a minor - Blessed Heaven!" This time Crowley shot up rimrod straight, taking a deep, unnecessary breath and turning to Aziraphale. "Your hand is on my thigh. Why is your hand on my thigh?" 

The hiss was a little strained, Aziraphale thought, so he figured it was a step in the right direction. He turned his most innocent expression on Crowley. "It is? Oh, so sorry, my dear." He removed it slowly.

Crowley gave Aziraphale a long, studying look, one that Aziraphale found difficult not to squirm under. Without actually seeing his eyes, the angel had no idea what Crowley was thinking. After a moment, during which Aziraphale was sure he squirmed just a bit, Crowley turned back to his typing.

"Just a minor banking company," Crowley finished, pointedly continuing the conversation in a much more normal, though still slightly slurred, voice. "They're from somewhere in Switzerland, I think." [4]

Aziraphale, on the other hand, wasn't too interested in networks anymore. He had felt something stir while his hand was on Crowley's thigh, and he was suddenly curious. In his inebriated state, curiosity was damn near impossible to muzzle. "Crowley, how long has it been since you last 'made an effort'?"

Crowley looked a bit confused. "Made an effort?"

Aziraphale blushed slightly. He'd desperately hoped that the demon would know what he was talking about. "You know, um…" His mouth opened and closed like a fish's a few times as he collected terms, than rejected them as crass. Finally he sighed. "'_Made_ an _effort_'?" he repeated, emphasizing and gesturing vaguely to Crowley's lap.

Crowley glanced down in the direction of the gesturing, not missing a keystroke. "Oh, that. That doesn't really need effort - wait a minute here." He stilled, then leaned back away from the laptop. He turned to Aziraphale, his expression unreadable. "Okay, I think I have an idea about where this is going."

Aziraphale's eyes widened innocently. "Where this is going?" he repeated. Meanwhile, his mind was swearing like a sailor. 

Crowley leaned back into the comfortable leather, a smug grin on his face. He looked like a demon fully in his element. Well, a demon somewhere in the vicinity of his element while completely pissed, at least. "Oh, yeah, I know exactly what you're trying to do, angel. I know exactly, _exactly_ what you're trying to do. You're trying to tempt me. How utterly un-angelic." The smug grin widened.

_Tempt, such dreadful terminology. And calling me un-angelic? Snaky bastard. _Aziraphale suddenly felt a tad indignant. "I wasn't trying to tempt you," he said with a huff. 

Crowley laughed, a full out chuckle with a strange sort of hiss at the borders. "Fine, then. If you weren't trying to tempt me, than what _were_ you trying to do?"

Aziraphale looked down, a blush spreading across his face like a raging inferno. "Impede you," he muttered, waving a vague hand in the direction of the laptop..

Crowley leaned in slightly. "I say, what was that? I didn't quite hear you."

Aziraphale looked up as he repeated what he said just a bit louder. "Impede you."

"_Impede_ me?" Crowley looked at Aziraphale with an amused look, than burst out laughing. "Is that what they call it up there nowadays? Bloody interesting way of putting it. Impede me, indeed."

Deciding the old plan was getting them nowhere fast and that this was as good a time as any, Aziraphale made a new plan and stuck with it. With the speed of the snake - which was kind of oxymoronic when you think about it - the angel twisted, snatched the dark shades from Crowley's face, and planted his lips on the open mouth. It was slightly awkward, as his enthusiasm made them smash noses and teeth together, but the satisfaction he got from seeing the shock narrow the slit pupils made up for it. Allowing himself a grin, he quickly wrapped an arm around the waist of the petrified demon and closed his eyes, leaning to make a better fit as he took full advantage of his, well, advantage.

Little by little, Crowley relaxed under him as he gently explored the shockingly submissive demon's mouth , which tasted quite pleasantly like the embodiment of sin with an overlay of random alcoholic drinks. Half of him still expected to be pushed away, but when a cool, rough hand came up to frame his right cheek, that half was quickly beaten down by the sensory evidence that it wasn't to be. Moaning softly, Aziraphale leaned slightly into the soft touch in a movement that was both wonderful and a fateful mistake.

It was a mistake, you see, because it inadvertently brought Aziraphale's questing tongue in unwanted contact with the very sharp point of one of one of Crowley's delicate, mostly unseen fangs. As the pain surfaced through the lustful - er, job motivated and pleasurable sensations running through the angel's nervous system, it brought with it a shadow of doubt and, shortly after that, the urge to 'quickly back away'. So Aziraphale tried to follow this instinctive urge, but his retreat was stopped by a very insistant hand on the back of his head and the sudden uproarious response from the mouth under his.

Triggered by the combination of blood and sudden panic, Crowley surged up and took over, turning the kiss from Aziraphale's gentle exploration to a suddenly rough feeding that practically ordered the angel to sit down, shut up, and enjoy the ride. Aziraphale's panic spiked as Crowley gently, yet insistently forced him back on the couch and crawled over him, alining their bodies just so before settling down, covering him like a living blanket. Needless to say, Aziraphale was unavoidably, inexcusably trapped. 

After one particularly thorough journey of Aziraphale's mouth, Crowley finally pulled back, grinning into the few inches of space between their faces. There was a definite gleam of devilment in his eye. "Haven't you ever been warned about biting off more than you can chew?" the demon said, chuckling as he pulled further away. Aziraphale had a flash of hope that his friend would take mercy on him, let him up, and forget this ever happened except when there was a good time for obligatory teasing. It was squashed immediately as the demon's weight was shifted to elbows, freeing clever hands to slide up to the top button of the fashionable silk shirt that Aziraphale had uncharacteristically chosen to wear that day.

Well, Aziraphale figured it wouldn't be a problem in the future, for it seemed that this shirt, one of the few of its ilk in his closet, would die an ignoble death. As the hands decended, buttons flew about the couch as they were viciously ripped off one-by-one. He watched, mesmerized, as it had the same quality as a good automobile accident or train wreck. When the very last button made it's trip across the room, the hands moved halfway up and stopped. Aziraphale felt the inexplicable urge to look up, so he did - right into glowing yellow eyes. Like a deer caught in the set of very bright headlights gracing the front of a speeding, oncoming vehicle, he tensed, freezing all movement at the hungry look in those eyes.

Crowley smiled his snakelike smile at him, and let out a soft breath that was a strange cross between a sigh and a hiss as he parted the silk. "So beautiful and pure," he muttered as his eyes followed the exposed line of flesh. Then he looked up at Aziraphale with a wry smile. "Or maybe not so pure. Definitely tempting, though." Moving closer, the demon lightly brushed a soft, almost chaste kiss against Aziraphale's lips before brushing down over the flawless cheek to the pale shell of ear. "You're a fool, angel."

"W-w-why?" Aziraphale blamed the shivers wrecking his body on panic. They were most decidedly _not_ caused by the gentle nips being administered around his ear or the feeling of cool hands sliding over his ribs.

"Did you seriously think you could tempt a master?" the demon's hiss replied with a distracted air, blowing air against his moistened flesh. The mouth moved down to the ivory skin of the angel's neck, licking and biting along the strong tendons there. 

Pleasure washed from the point of contact, wiping away the few thoughts of panic left and very nearly making Aziraphale forget the question. "Um…er…Well, you _were_ tempted. That's why we're here."

"So you finally admit your intentions." A chuckle rumbled against the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder, then more words were spoken against the angel's skin, interspaced by random licks and nips. "Mmmhmm, that's true…but not…completely…accurate. You see," he pulled back again, and Aziraphale was treated yet again to the hungry depths of the demon's lust-darkened eyes, "I'm the demon here. Therefore it makes perfect sense that I'm the one who tempted you, because angels just aren't that good at it. Downright terrible, in fact. Don't do it right at all." This was delivered in a rough, impatient voice that demanded that he was right, Aziraphale was wrong, and that they stop arguing and get on with the sex. Then Crowley yet again started lavishing kisses and other assorted things against his throat.

Aziraphale, though distracted, managed to feel somewhat affronted. "Just because we don't doesn't mean we can't. Besides, how can you say that you tempted me when _I _was the one making all the moves?" he muttered, gasping at the particularly sharp bite that statement caused. He'd be damned if that didn't draw blood. 

"Shut up," Crowley muttered, roughly, his hiss strangled by lust. As though to make up for the bite, one of the demon's cool hands ran up the exposed flesh of his torso, lightly running over one of the perfect nipples gracing the pale chest as the hot mouth made it's way down to the other.[5] "And don't forget to 'make an effort'." 

"Oh! All…right…shutting up now," Aziraphale replied absently, hands sliding into dark, wild hair. Those were the last coherent words spoken for quite some time. 

*** 

Much later that night, listening to Crowley's soft, hissing breaths as he slept, Aziraphale wondered if he'd gone about this the right way. It certainly wasn't very angelic, he had to admit to himself, and he feared that there would be some sort of fallout later. He knew that the human excuse of "but I was completely pissed" wouldn't work on the boys upstairs. Besides the fact that it's success rate wasn't all that great anyway, it wasn't particularly true for the entirety of the project. Somewhere in the middle of the activities, he'd decided to sober up, and, surprisingly, the panic hadn't returned and he still enjoyed it. Anyway, it'd probably be better if he used the unconditional angelic love and curiosity line if the subject ever came up.

Absently wondering whether the demon went through the entire night with his three sheets status - it would be just like him - Aziraphale's eyes wandered for a short trip down the body half-covered by the sinfully red silk sheets Crowley chose to don his sinfully large bed. A slight grin crossed the angel's face as he noticed that the demon was closely snuggling his pillow. While Crowley didn't exactly look innocent while he slept, he did look cute. Definitely not as devilish as when he'd finished a job well done -

Suddenly, Aziraphale's fully functioning mind remembered the catalyst for the past few hours. Glancing over to the open doorway, the angel saw the still running laptop screen, which was filling the living room with a soft, bluish light. Shooting a smug grin towards the now snoring demon, he raised a hand towards it, righting the wrongs his irascible friend had done and then some. When he was sure that there was more good than evil overall, he set the system into shutdown.

"Game, set, match, dear. Don't mess with a master," he muttered softly with a slight chuckle, shifting over to lie fully beside the demon, and running a hand through the dark hair that now spiked in random directions. He could already imagine the bed head Crowley would have in the morning. Aziraphale smiled as Crowley made an odd sort of purring sound, rousing from his unnecessary slumber and arching towards the angel's touch. Ah, yes, cute could cover that, too. Among other words.

In the background, the soft whirring of the laptop, forgotten until then, ceased.

***

Elsewhere, while a C.E.O. of Swiss Bank/New York Stock Exchange Mutual was wondering through the network, he suddenly stumbled upon a brilliant idea. It was wonderful, could easily end all strife, and was delightfully cheap in execution. Forgoing sleep, since what good was sleep to an executive in a large company, he furiously typed up various spreadsheets and reports to deliver to the next day's board meeting. 

__________________________________________________________________________________

[1] It should be noted that, other than the time right after the near-Apocalypse, this particular time was the first time since Mesopotamia that Aziraphale allowed himself to ascend to the honoured four sheets. He usually considers it prudent to stop at two-and-a-half or three, at the very most.

[2] Which, truly, isn't all that fast. The record for quickest typing in the "Hell Almanac" (Copyright Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Smith, Inc., MLCCCCCXXXIX) is only about 31.2 wpm, with nonsensical, one-letter words allowed.

[3] The specific passage regarding this would be found in chapter four, section three, paragraph twenty-one of the Official Angels' Handbook (Copyright God, -MMMMVI), and was added during the war before the Adversary's fall. It is often intentionally downplayed due to a printing error caused by a disgruntled angelic typesetter during the manufacturing of it's third edition: "…fometimef an enemy'f way if thy only waye, but I'll be buggered if anyone allows us to have any actual fun using it." And, yes, all angels are required to memorize the entire handbook, word for word. 

[4] After the near-Apocalypse, the Swiss Banks bought out all other banks, to the great chagrin of many people who weren't rich. They also joined up with the New York Stock Exchange, but it was such a sudden move that people didn't even know when it occurred or particularly why it occurred. Theories have been thought out, but, in the end, it went down with mysteries such as where Atlantis went after its recent discovery and why there weren't anymore visitations by aliens with messages of peace.

[5] It should be noted here that, just like Aziraphale, Crowley has the traditional two nipples, since, after all, they both work in basically human shapes. Those in the Witchfinder Army would be astounded. Of course, they would most likely be relieved of their shock if they found Jinkens, a demon who took the form of a sow, and who currently terrorizes a small farm belonging to H. S. Dell located on the outskirts of Oxfordshire.


	2. On the Horns of a Demon's Dilemma

On the Horns of a Demon's Dilemma

Obligatory Disclaimer and Warnings: The angel, demon, and boy mentioned are not mine - they belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. As for allusions, ditto. Also, this is SLASH. Don't like, don't read. Simple, right? 

It is well known that well past noon is, according to unemployed people, students off for the summer, and any demon inclined to ignore the "evil never sleeps" creed, the decidedly best time to wake up. Crowley, one of the few, perhaps the only, demon to ignore said creed, awoke at said interval of time in an overly cheerful temperament. He could almost be described as bright eyed and bushy tailed, but it would only be half true, as he had no tail whatsoever. Despite that, his yellow eyes with slit pupils were most definitely bright, and he had a goofy, self-satisfied smile on his face. Releasing the pillow he'd wrapped himself around during the night[1], he stretched a fully luxurious stretch, sat up, and lazily turned to give his traditional, morning/afternoon-after brush-off to last night's partner, whoever it was. When he saw the note, written in extremely familiar handwriting on extremely familiar parchment, the final, fuzzy edge of sleep dissipated from around his mind, allowing him to remember exactly who and what he'd done.

"Bloody bastard didn't even stick around for the morning-after," Crowley muttered.[2] He picked the parchment up off of the pillow. It read:

Dear Crowley,

had to open the bookshop. Come by when you finally wake up. I'll buy lunch. 

A.

P.S. I restocked the '72 Merlot and watered the plants. The poor things were looking a little peckish.

The short missive put a large damper on the demon's initial good mood, even going so far as to make him a tad upset. Well, if that's how the angel was going to play it, he was game. More than game, actually, he was all for it. Just see if he,Crowley, _a demon_, went crawling to Aziraphale like some love-sick human after being abandoned. Crumpling the note into a small, tightly packed ball, he glared at it, setting it on fire before sending it to smoulder itself out in a wastepaper basket across the room. Then he rose from the bed, clothing himself with a mere thought, and stomped off to undo the damage Aziraphale had done by being nice to his plants. 

***

It wasn't long before Crowley knew something was wrong. It was later that day, actually, that he started noticing. For some strange reason, people were nicer and, the demon noticed to his chagrin, a little less enthusiastic to go through with his suggestions. Not just that, but, as Crowley went about his daily business, he could feel the weight of a sort of peace pressing down upon him, and, to him, this was extremely pressing. So pressing, in fact, as to make a shiver of dread travel up his spine. 

It wasn't until the next day he truly knew what was wrong. The epiphany was delivered to him with his Sunday paper. There, on the front page, under a giant article glorifying a sudden peace between two friendly, formerly enemy, nations, was a slightly smaller article that explained everything.

**New Series of Charities Founded By C.E.O.s of Swiss Bank/New York Stock Exchange Mutual Expected to End Hunger, Violence, and General Flim-Flam **

"Well, bugger," Crowley muttered. He quickly finished his coffee, and rushed out to the Bentley to start what looked to be a full day's work. While he rushed about, he listened to a general news program, intending to find some of the bigger local areas of good worth corrupting. Unfortunately, he'd hit the world news section, which, quite frankly, wasn't shaping up to be very useful. It seemed good prevailed everywhere. 

"…And today, in Botswana - _CROWLEY, YOU'VE GOT SOME SERIOUS EXPLAINING TO DO._"

Well, it seemed that Hell had started noticing the general imbalance as well. Crowley thought quickly. "About what?"

"_ABOUT THIS INFERNAL GOOD THAT'S POPPING UP ALL OVER THE PLACE, WHAT ELSE? SOULS ARE UNTARNISHING BECAUSE OF IT! DON'T EVEN TRY ACTING INNOCENT, IT'S DEFINITELY NOT YOU._"

"Oh, sorry."

"_IF YOU DON'T PULL AHEAD VERY SHORTLY, WE'LL PULL YOU OUT, AND, BELIEVE ME, YOU DON'T WANT THAT. WE STILL OWE YOU FOR THAT LITTLE STUNT YOU PULLED DURING WHAT SHOULD'VE BEEN ARMEGGEDDON._"

"Er." Somehow Crowley knew they hadn't forgotten. He could feel a headache coming on. This was turning out to be a very bad day.

"_YOU CAN BET THAT SINCE THEN, WE'VE BEEN KEEPING A CLOSE EYE ON YOU. A VERY CLOSE EYE. THE ONLY SPOT OF GOOD PERFORMANCE WE'VE SEEN SO FAR IS YOUR TEMPTING OF THAT ANGEL. THOUGH YOU'VE DONE DOWNRIGHT SHODDY WORK ON EVERYTHING ELSE._"

"Erk." 

"_DUE TO YOUR UNEXPECTED VICTORY OVER THE ANGEL, WE'LL ALLOW YOU A FORTNIGHT TO WORK EVERYTHING OUT. PULL AHEAD IN THE NAME OF SATAN A.S.A.P., OR ELSE._"

"Yes, lord. Thank you." Crowley was relieved. It wasn't every day that someone was given a pardon from Hell. Well, other than the one he'd seemed to get for his incompetence during the near-Apocalypse. Things were looking up.

"_OH, AND IT MIGHT BE PRUDENT TO FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED WITH THE ANGEL. MORE THAN PRUDENT, ACTUALLY. CAUSING A FALL WOULD DEFINITELY PUT A KINK IN _THEIR _PLANS.._" 

Or not. "I'll try." 

"_YOU'D BETTER. OR ELSE… _cold front sweeping in from the west. We expect -"

Ah, there was the expected "or else". Crowley reached over and turned off the radio with a sigh. 

***

It was on that same day that another felt something, also. Twelve year old Adam Young looked up from the glossy pages of his magazine, his smooth brow wrinkling slightly as the sense of _something wrong_ hit him. He searched for the cause, finding it immediately, and figured that the situation could rectify itself. After all, he figured everything was in semi-capable hands. Shaking off the feeling, he returned his gaze to the magazine page, where he continued to drool over the ultra cool dirt bikes with pure, boyish envy. He knew that there was a snowball's chance in Hell that his ever-practical father would give him one for his birthday.

***

It was yet another lazy summer's day for Great Britain in the summer after the near-Apocalypse, and this one sure was a dozy. It had nary a cloud in a sky the perfect shade of cerulean, allowing for the gladly shining sun to merrily shine down and heat the air to that absolutely perfect temperature conductive for light hearts and cheerful tempers.[3] As a matter of fact, due to the overabundance of literal good soaking the atmosphere, people were deliriously happy. There was a smile on nearly everyone's face, everywhere was just generally bustling with life, and the discordant sounds of joyous children playing echoed through the street. 

Another thing that echoed through the street was the rough mechanical purr of a gunned engine, the exact engine of the jet black 1926 Bentley which was speeding through London at a whopping 120 mph on its way towards Soho. It must be said that its driver was most definitely not smiling nor bustling with life. As a matter of fact, the driver, one Mr. A. J. Crowley, was most likely the only one the laziness of the day hadn't touched, for he was quite busy indeed. 

It was the day before his fortnight would be up, and he'd only just managed to pull up a few points in the whole good vs. evil thing, which wasn't nearly enough. He also was trying to figure out how he could circumvent the whole problem without tempting Aziraphale to fall. Sure, the fall would put a definite notch in his belt, but the angel had finally been shaped into just enough of a bastard to be worth liking by six thousand years of living with humans. Crowley had no wish to see what would be sent in as replacement. He also really, really didn't want to be dragged back to Hell for punishment. So, instead of a smile he had the detached expression that was the trademark of stressed people everywhere, complete with slightly crinkled forehead and distant gaze.

It seemed like no time at all before the Bentley reached it's destination: a small, dingy bookshop owned by a certain angel that Crowley had been religiously avoiding for the past fortnight. This was, indeed, the same exact angel who had caused this entire mess in the first place with his infernal…no, celestial interference. Of course, he was about to take said angel out to a high-class place for a nice expensive, chummy dinner and drinks. It would've seemed foolish, except for the fact that Crowley needed to regain some ground and figured that actually talking to Aziraphale was absolutely necessary. 

So it was that Crowley found himself walking to the bookshop - which huddled in the surrounding buildings, trying hard not to be noticed - and opened the drab door with it's peeling paint. The small tinkling of the welcome bell above him made him cringe, as did the thin layer of dust that happily plummeted down to deliberately cover his black Armani suit with a thin line as he moved further in. A wave of his hand and every particle of dust floated back up again to hang dejectedly in the air around him.

"Be with you in a moment," Aziraphale's soft voice called from the back room. It was soon followed by the angel himself, tea in one hand and eyes on the old, leather bound book he held in the other. "Are you looking for anything in particular?" It was all said with the distracted air of one not all to willing to help.

Crowley shook his head at this old, overused tactic in the war to chase off customers. "Just a certain angel," he hissed.

"Crowley." Aziraphale looked up with a smile of his own, welcoming and speaking volumes of how glad the angel was to see him. "It's been a while. How're you doing, dear boy?" The book and tea were both set on the dust covered counter.

"Well, personally, I'm doing well. Professionally, on the other hand, not good at all." Crowley watched as the smile on the prim lips dimmed slightly to one more apologetic.

"Um, yes, about that. I'm sorry. I did get a bit carried away." 

Crowley arched an eyebrow, which just appeared over his shades. "A bit?"

Aziraphale shifted his eyes away from the demon, slightly embarrassed. His eyes lit upon the cup of tea, and widened slightly with even more embarrassment. "Oh, dear, I forgot to ask. Would you like some tea?"

"Actually, I've a mind for something stronger," Crowley replied, grinning a wide, snake-like grin. "And for something more solid. Can I tempt you to dinner?"

***

The L'Hor Dourvers restaurant was fairly new, but, due to it's five star chef being trained at some high end culinary institute, extremely popular. However, Crowley had no quelms about using his power to secure the two of them a table, so they soon had a nice, private booth near the back corner. One meal and a few rounds later, both angel and demon had a mellow buzz going. It was in this state that Crowley finally brought up the subject both had been dancing around all evening.

"Well, 's just that I'm ass deep in alligators " he said, wondering if this would be easier fully pissed. "The imbalance you caused got my superiors' collective knickers in a twist."

"I've been trying to help, you know. Ignoring chances to make things right, doing a few of your particular jobs, and such." The angel shuddered. "Who knew planting one idea through a banking network would cause such a hassle?"

"It wouldn't have been anything if you would've just let my work stand," Crowley grumbled. He decided that, since it was obvious that he had no chance to completely fix this, pissed was the way to go. He only had one more night left, anyhow, unless he wanted to tempt Aziraphale to falling. That was practically a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. He glared at an empty bottle, and it happily refilled itself for him. He splashed some of the liquor in his glass. "They were rich bankers and C.E.O.s. That's just a step up from lawyer as far as our side's concerned."

Aziraphale stared at the table, and Crowley could see he felt fairly wretched. Since it was the angel's fault he was even in this mess, he decided to up the feeling a notch.

"Anyway, I'm supposed to be collected and taken back for punishment if I don't correct everything in the time they gave me."

Aziraphale looked up hopefully. "How much longer do you have?"

Crowley looked at his fashionable Rolex watch. "Oh, about thirteen hours or so." He drained his glass with one go, and refilled it. He'd hit one-point-nine sheets, and it just wasn't enough. 

The hopeful look dropped. "Oh." 

Crowley nodded. "Exactly. You know, I say we carry this over to my place. I've got quite a bit of liquor to finish off. One last hurrah."

Aziraphale, looking really sombre, like he regretted quite a few things, nodded. He even picked up the tab as they left, leaving a generous tip as he always did.

***

Now, it is well known that in an human form - or Earthly equivalent, thereof - an angel is granted certain leniencies when it comes to things dealing with certain human traits, such as lust, gluttony, or pride, as long as their thoughts are relatively pure about it. It is when the angel sheds such forms that they are vulnerable to punishment for these actions, and most, if not all, times such action has occurred, the angel's punishment was to be stripped of holiness and fall. Crowley, being an ex-angel himself, most definitely knew this, so, in essence, he most definitely knew what he would need to do to corrupt Aziraphale's innocence. 

Of course, being of the fallen, Crowley also knew what such a fall did to most angels. With a rapid loss of holiness, an angel's mind could be broken irreparably, leaving them to such fates as working in Hell's kitchen or looking after the televangelists. Even if the mind remains fully together, the angel still loses something vital for decent thought, and ends up like Hastur or, worse, Beezelbub. Truthfully, Crowley saw that he was probably one of the most decent, all-together chaps in Hell's retinue, and, while a good deal of it was due to six thousand years on Earth, he had a feeling it was due to the fact that he didn't so much as fall as drift down. If he tempted Aziraphale, the angel wouldn't have such luck. Aziraphale would fall, hard, and just wouldn't remain _Aziraphale_. Of course, Crowley would be punished for eternity in Hell's extensively equipped torture chambers[4] if he didn't have anything to show the next day, so he was enough of a demon to consider the trade-off.

So, while he decided, Crowley lounged on his comfortable white leather sofa and proceeded to get as pissed as humanly, or demonly, possible. Aziraphale, completely oblivious to the direction Crowley's thoughts had taken, sat in the one corner not taken up by lounging demon and joined him in inebriety. So it was that Crowley finally came to his moment of decision, precariously balancing on the horns of dilemma while pissed enough to wobble. Being who he was, he wobbled towards self-preservation. What could he say? He was a demon, not a saint.

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, who was staring drunkenly into space. It seemed the angel was pretty far gone. "You know what, angel," he slurred, "this is the last night I'll ever have pain free on earth."

Aziraphale turned to the demon, his sky blue eyes glassy and emotional. "Yes," he stated, unwilling to lie. He knew as much as Crowley did that there was no hope. Well, he figured that Crowley thought there was no hope, since he didn't know about Crowley's plan B. 

"I have an idea of what would be the best way to spend it." Setting straight down the self-preserving - not to mention relatively blunt - path, Crowley gave the angel a seductive, yet snaky, grin, and pushed himself onto his elbows. "A nice, long fuck."

"Well, I'm sure we could get you someone over in Soho. As a matter of fact, Madame Tracy-" 

"Er. I don't want Madam Tracy." Crowley shuddered as he sat up. 

Aziraphale looked down at his bottle. "What do you want?" he asked softly.

Crowley slid across the sofa until he was right next to Aziraphale, and laid a cool hand over the angel's warm one. His yellow eyes gleamed like topaz. "You," he whispered, mouth close to the angel's ear.

Aziraphale shivered. Then, to Crowley's surprise - and pleasure - nodded. "All right. I guess I love you enough for that."

Crowley had sobered somewhat, and was leaning in for a kiss when the words actually registered. Love? When had love ever come into the equation? He hesitated a few scant inches from the angel's mouth. 

"Well? You want it, what're you waiting for, demon dear?" The soft voice was slightly husky, and Aziraphale's blue, innocent eyes suddenly didn't look that innocent anymore. 

Well, what's love got to do with it anyway? Crowley sighed, then leaned the rest of the way, covering the angel's sweet, unresisting mouth with his own. Sometime later, a half-dressed demon clumsily guided a half-dressed angel to his sinfully big bed. 

Crowley had many opportunities through the night to tempt Aziraphale fully, but opportunity wasn't really the problem. Even in the throws of deepest debauchery and lust, everything the angel did was filled with such _love _and _pure intentions _that there was no chance at all of a fall. So, after a few good, messy rounds that had undoubtedly pleasurable results, he gave up trying. In the end, he fell asleep wrapped around Aziraphale, with the angel's soft voice whispering sweet nothings into his ear and a warm hand stroking his hair. Surprisingly, it brought back faded, wispy memories of Heaven. 

***

Yet another feeling of wrongness, stronger this time, awoke Adam from a peaceful sleep at seven o'clock in the morning - definitely not a time he would've chosen for being woken up on a summers day. Irritated, the young boy traced the feeling. When he reached its source, he bolted upright, completely awake. It seemed his "uncles" needed his intervention, after all. He rushed to the phone, dialing a number he'd never been given, but that he knew to be right nonetheless.

*** 

The next day, Crowley actually woke up early. Well, it was about eleven o'clock, but that was early for him. Aziraphale wasn't there, but he was expecting it this time. He was pretty relieved, actually. He was a strange mixture between a wreck of nerves and a man so depressed that he couldn't be bothered to roll out of bed. Of course, Crowley did get out of bed, though, as he refused to be dragged down naked from a bed that practically stank of angelic presence. It was yet more proof of his failure, and would make things worse for him.

It was a day of lasts for the demon. Last meal, last rerun of _Cheers_, last threats to his plants. Over all, it was a highly depressing day, and Crowley's nerves sang with fear all the while. After three o'clock hit, he started to watch the clock, for Hell was most punctual when it came to punishment. Finding it fitting, he turned on the same news he'd been listening to a fortnight ago, stiffening when the world news portion came on at a quarter-after. He waited for exactly six minutes into the program, and when the last minute was upon him, took a deep breath and held it. His body sang in what could only be an anxiety attack: pulse racing, ribs squeezing the life out of his ribs. He could swear that the fail human form of his body would up and die on him, sending him straight to his doom without the need for any retrieval…

…and the minute passed completely.

Crowley blinked and let out his breath. Numb, he listened to the rest of the news, his muscles gradually loosening from their petrified state. By the time the next show, one of those phone therapist ones, came on, he was so relaxed that he was almost sliding off the couch. 

"…Well, I find it best if you tell her that what's she's doing is detrimental - _CROWLEY, I MUST SAY, GOOD SHOW. YOU WON ME A LOT OF MONEY IN THE DIRTY POOL._"

It figured. Crowley jumped and all relaxation flew out the window. The speaker - Brasel[5], the stand-in, he noticed - was oddly cheerful. He must've won a lot of money by betting against him. Damn, it shows what friendship amounts to down below. "Um…I'm happy for you." He steeled himself against the condemnation that was sure to follow.

I JUST KNEW YOU COULD PULL THROUGH. IT'S A VERY GOOD THING THAT NO ONE ELSE SEEMS TO HAVE MY FAITH IN YOU. I COULD BUY A CONDO IN THE FOURTH RING WITH WHAT YOU GOT ME. WELL, YOU DIDN'T CAUSE THE ANGEL TO FALL, BUT THAT WASN'T REALLY ALL THAT IMPORTANT. IT'S NOT LIKE IT SHORTENED THE POT ANY. "

"Er." 

"_ANYWAY, GOOD JOB, CROWLEY._"

Quite frankly, Crowley was stunned. The world seemed to have turned a one-eighty while he was sleeping. "Why…Thank you."

Then the voice turned menacing. "_JUST BE SURE YOU KEEP IT UP._" Then Brasel's quirky perk was back, along with a hint of something sly."_OH, DID YOU WANT A HAND IN THE NEXT SOUL FIGHTS? LOTS OF MONEY TO BE MADE._"

"Um, I'll have to get back to you on that."

"_ALL RIGHT. SEE YOU LATER, OLD BOY. BE BAD…_than she made me spank her -"

That Brasel sure was a cheery chap. Crowley shut the radio off, and slammed back some rum for good measure. He'd been pardoned - no, _complimented_ over a job he didn't complete. At least, he was sure he didn't complete it. He bet he felt pretty damn near to what Alice must've when she stepped through the looking glass.

***

Inevitably, the demon later found himself in Aziraphale's bookshop, sitting on the dust-covered counter and drinking tequila as he told the unbelievable story.

"…And so he said that I'd done a _good _job!" Crowley slammed back a shot, enjoying it's strength and the burning it made as it went down. 

Aziraphale nodded, strangely silent, and took a sip of cocoa. He'd been silent throughout the entire rambling tale, with only a few noises of agreement or encouragement here or there. It was strange for him. Crowley studied the angel, taking in the utter calm and air of secrecy. His eyes narrowed behind his shades. "Aziraphale, you know what's going on, don't you?"

Aziraphale's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Crowley's for the first time since he walked in. There was a definite hint of being caught at something in their depths. Then he looked down at the counter. "Er…yes," he admitted softly. 

Crowley blinked. "Well? Don't leave me in suspense. What is it, then?"

Aziraphale took a deep, unnecessary breath, then looked up with a smile playing on his prim lips. "Remember Adam Young?"

Just that simply, everything clicked into place. Crowley's mouth gaped. "You called the ex-antichrist?" Then the fact that the young boy was actually able to fix everything just like that kicked in. "He still has all that power?"

"Actually, he called me. The dear boy offered to fix the problem in exchange for a favour." Aziraphale shrugged. "I agreed."

"He called you." The demon's voice was slightly disbelieving. "Why would he call you? I was the one with the problem. Why didn't he call _me_?"

"Well, I guess it had to do with the problem originating with me in the first place," Aziraphale replied, looking awfully embarrassed. "He said he traced the imbalance to my actions, and figured that I would be glad to be able to make it right considering our…um, current arrangement."

Crowley smiled a wide, toothy grin that, surprisingly, looked rather more relieved than snaky. "Well, I guess that's all right then, considering you _were_ the cause." Then the last part swam past the alcohol. "Wait, what do you mean 'current arrangement'?"

Aziraphale looked down, an actual blush forming from his embarrassment. "It seems he knows about our…er, change in the relationship."

Yellow eyes practically bulged behind designer sunglasses. "The ex-antichrist knows we had sex? A _twelve year old boy_ knows we had sex? Blessed heaven." Crowley filled his glass again, then tipped it back with unbridled enthusiasm for the alcohol. 

Aziraphale glanced up again. "Oh, I don't think he knew about it that far, per se. He just mentioned our new…er, connectedness."

Crowley snorted. "Well, that makes me feel a _lot_ better," he said, a sarcastic bite to his words. Then he thought for a moment. "Aziraphale," he looked at the angel, "what was the favour, anyway?"

Aziraphale smiled angelically, a hint of the modest blush still on his pale skin. "Oh, just a request for a specific birthday present. It's nothing I wouldn't have gotten him, anyway."

***

There was still nearly a full summer to go, and in Lower Tadfield, there was a pretty good chance that the summer would be perfectly lovely, with that perfect temperature conductive for light hearts and cheerful tempers[6] being pretty near constant from day to day. It is in this lovely summer one year after the near-Apocalypse, that a young boy rode through town, the envy of all the town's young boys, followed by his three friends and fellow members of the Them. For this young boy was Adam Young, remembered by few as the ex-antichrist, remembered by all in Lower Tadfield as a roving menace, and the proud owner of a shiny new, state of the art, cool blue dirt bike, complete with all the trimmings. 

__________________________________________________________________________________

[1] Demon's aren't known for their post coital cuddling, and for good reason. They're more the 'get off, mutter something, turn around, and forget there ever was a partner' type.

[2] A perfect example of demonic hypocrisy. 

[3] It has been scientifically proven that this "perfect temperature" is exactly 79.031degrees by a number of polls conducted by the ten most popular Sunday papers. 

[4] Which, actually, are centuries out of date as far as torture is concerned. The collection of methods had been stopped at the end of the Spanish Inquisition, due to budget cuts in the department. 

[5] Brasel is Hell's local bookie, and manager of the dirty pool. He handles the infernal message system when no one else is around to do it.

[6] Just in case you've forgotten, that's exactly 79.031 degrees.


End file.
